CHAPTER XXXIII ON ALL-HALLOW EVE "A lonely stillness so like death, Are hush'd, and seem to hold their breath, And heavy as if made of lead." T was on the evening of the fourth day when, wearied with the tedious voyage, the Mohawk neared his journey's end. The moon waded up, dim and pallid, amid billows of vaporous clouds that at intervals veiled her face, as the canoe shot into the waters of the North River, and, obedient to the strong strokes of the paddle, moved up the stream. The scenery, at the outset half-pastoral, soon became wilder, as each mile was passed becoming more gloomy; dark hills towered on right and left shore clothed in sombre pine forests bristling against the sky; high barriers of rock lined the stream. The broad paddle glanced with measured sweep, while the light canoe rocked and danced upon the murky waters that crept onward with stealthy flow between the high bluffs and deep forest shadows ere it emptied into the waters of the bay at New Amsterdam. Darker and darker the night shut down as the little bark glided onward, tossing like a feather, but keeping its course upon the very fringe of the eddies, with which Wa-ne-no appeared familiar. The wind had risen and swept down the defiles in gusts, moaning among the tree tops as the Indian guided his frail craft between the jaws of a gloomy defile into a narrow stream cutting the precipice to the base. Here the waters of the tributary lay black and comparatively sluggish, spreading out in a deep basin encircled by precipitous walls a few yards from the entrance, and here the Mohawk secured his canoe and leaped ashore upon a shelf. A dozen war-canoes lay moored within the cove, quite screened from the view of any voyager up or down the North River. Upward, along the rocky, dimly-defined trail, Wane-no made his way with the assurance of one accustomed to the route, among the rough crags, along narrow ledges, across sharp, broken rocks and smooth boulders, his scalp-lock tossing in the wind, the whirling autumn leaves, wind-driven, striking his face, until at last he stepped out upon a granite shelf from which a path led down a steep descent into a rockgirdled basin, where a singular scene was presented. A score of camp-fires blazed up redly, casting a flickering light like witch-flames upon the rough ledges built upon the bottom of a huge bowl scooped by the hand of nature, and softly carpeted with green moss and still succulent grass which had lain protected from the biting frost that had nipped the leaves of the forest and browned the herbage of the upper strata. Within the natural enclosure three-score swarthy figures were moving about or lying at full length, basking in the warmth and light of the ruddy fires. A hundred feet above, the wind rioted and raved through the waving branches; down in the heart of the basin the tumult was hushed, only a light puff at intervals betokened the strong current of air whistling dirge-like across the bluffs and sweeping down the stream on a level with the base of the rock-bound bowl, its proximity made apparent only by the vibration of the ground at regular intervals as the deep current rolled onward. The narrow, well-worn path, attesting that the spot was a favourite camping-ground, led in a zigzag course adown a side of the natural excavation less precipitous than other portions of the wall, and with swift, silent strides Wa-ne-no descended and made his way straight across the encampment to the single lodge reared at the opposite side of the basin. Not a warrior appeared to notice his advent, although their curiosity must have been excited to the utmost, neither did he pay the slightest attention to any as he strode forward and disappeared within the lodge. Beside a fire in the centre of the wigwam the great Sachem of the Mohawks was sitting, and at the entrance of his envoy he merely turned his eyes and with the gravity of his race peered again into the glowing coals, remaining silent, while Wa-ne-no stood motionless, awaiting his pleasure. At length the war-chief demanded an account of the ambassador, and, in the graphic style of the red men, Wa-ne-no related the story, while the chief listened, his fierce eyes kindling with a baleful glare, his fingers toying with the handle of his tomahawk, the only signs of his vindictive rage. The Canarsees they will not give the tribute?" he asked, after a pause, during which Wane-no had stood mutely regarding the fire. The pale-faces have said keep wampum,' returned Wa-ne-no, sententiously. With a slight wave of the hand the Sachem dismissed his messenger. Half-an-hour later a dozen of the chiefs and principal men of the party gathered about the council fire in solemn conclave, and before the midnight hour a plan of attack upon the Canarsees and the English who had instigated them to rebel against the delivery of the customary tribute had been formulated. The sun, an hour high, shone upon the encampment embosomed in the wild gorge, a deserted spot; not a living thing was in sight, and only the blackened, extinguished embers of the camp fires, lying in masses of white ashes, remained to tell how lately the hidden basin had been thronging with hideously painted savages equipped for the war-path. But down the mighty river two score canoes were floating on the first stage of the long journey before them, freighted with Mohawk warriors, each with bow and arrows slung at his back, tomahawk and scalping-knife in his girdle. Not a sound save the soft ripple of the waves and the low soughing of the autumn wind broke the stillness of the dull October morning as the war-party glided swiftly with the current, on the mission of death. On the southern shore of Sea-wan-ha-ka, where the waves of the restless ocean washed the sandy beach, there nestled an embryo town, a tract of territory marked in village farms, or boweries, the grants allotted to each proprietor converging to an angle toward the thick palisade which served the double purpose of an enclosure for cattle and as a stockade within which the settlers might take refuge whenever danger from an Indian outbreak threatened, furnishing a stronghold of no mean quality against the primitive weapons of the savages. Upon a commanding elevation stood the pride of the settlement, the substantial mansion where dwelt the Lady Deborah Moody and her son, Sir Henry Moody, Baronet, and, notwithstanding his youth, a man of note in the colony. Lady Deborah, spare, tall, patrician, with long, slender hands and aristocratically small feet, but with the step and air of a grenadier, was as unlike the typical Quakeress as it is possible to conceive, for in dress and speech alone she conformed to the preconceived model attached to the sect. A drab gown of rich material encased her figure, a kerchief of sheer muslin, worn over her tapering but thin shoulders and pinned in precise folds at her belt, was only rivalled in primness and immaculate whiteness by the plain muslin cap covering her abundant hair and framing in the thin, high-bred face with narrow folds. Through a pair of gold-bowed spectacles bridging a high Roman nose two steel-grey eyes peered with keen glances, a mouth with closely-set lips adding to the shrewd expression characterising this remarkable woman who had fled from England to the wilderness for freedom of speech and the right to worship God according to the peculiar tenets of the sect of which she was a consistent member. Altogether, Lady Deborah was a most elegant and ladylike person, her manners unexceptional, and so decided her guest, Major Gordon, as he sat in the capacious chimney-corner beside the cheerful fire blazing on the hearth, on the All-Hallow Eve following the day of his arrival at Gravesend. Standing before one of the narrow, diamond-paned windows, set at a goodly height from the polished floor, was a tall, dark gentleman, of perhaps thirty years, but looking older from the fixed gravity of his expression, the sternly-set lips and the dark circles beneath his keen, grey eyes. His face was clean |